"The damage is unprecedented."
On the road to the condemned nation of Arva, the Emperor and his loyal butler spoke of the carnage left behind by the Death of War. The reports had just come in, and the few images that had been captured were displayed on a tablet Turcan watched with cold indifference.
But even that indifference hid a heavy sorrow.
"I've seen it, Exorian."
Even he—even Emperor Turcan, sovereign of half the world and ruler of the greatest empire in history—was overwhelmed by the events.
"At the very least, he only struck Garida."
Exorian also held a tablet in his hands. Inside the black vehicle, the atmosphere was unbearable. Even the driver seemed to understand what had transpired.
The butler's face was dark, drained of life, as he replayed the footage over and over, studying the slaughter.
"He could have stopped the missiles."
The Emperor did not look up, his gaze fixed on the screen that revealed carnage on both sides.
Hearing no answer, Exorian pressed on.
"The A42 he sent back killed over five thousand in an instant. That dog aimed well—but the destructive power of that weapon of war is not to be underestimated. It reached as far as the city of Ziron."
At last, the Emperor parted his lips to speak.
"This is only the beginning."
"Yes. To think he once swore he would save the world."
"He is not the same in that state. You know this."
The Emperor turned his emerald-green eyes on his butler. Their glow was the only light inside the dark car, where silence and despair had long since killed the will to smile.
"You're beginning to see them too, aren't you, Exorian?"
The butler hesitated for a moment, then met his Emperor's gaze.
"Yes, Majesty."
The pressure in the vehicle spiked without warning. The Emperor's emerald aura pressed down on his servant with imperial authority, testing the truth of his words. In truth, he did not need to. He merely wanted his butler to feel the weight of what those terrible beings truly represented.
Those beings… like Marc Zeymond.
"Then I'll ask again. What do you think of him?"
"He must be killed."
The answer was the same as always. Turcan had expected it. The butler was a man who acted as he once had under the reign of Turcan's father—a killer without hesitation, one who struck down any threat to the Empire, allies included.
It was the response he had anticipated. Yet both men knew the true problem.
"And how?"
Exorian fell silent. Nothing could touch Marc. Nothing in this world. If they could summon an entity, perhaps it might have stood a chance—but that risk was far greater than Marc himself.
Worse still, the boy had only struck Garida's soldiers, ignoring their own forces entirely. The sole issue was his disregard for the A42 warheads, which had prevented the rescue of countless men.
"I don't know."
The Emperor regarded his trusted second with cold eyes. The situation was dire, and Marc's loss of control only deepened the crisis.
Catastrophes were striking multiple points across Zvenne, while the border with Garida burned in war, forcing soldiers to gather there.
Fortunately, no other nations had made a move. Turcan believed they had realized something was deeply wrong with the current events, and had chosen to minimize their own losses rather than provoke the Great Empire.
That, at least, was good news.
Beneath the overcast sky, a single ray of sunlight pierced the gray clouds, falling directly upon the Emperor. His eyes gleamed under the light, as though bathed in divine radiance.
It was his gift as Emperor—he drew grace itself.
"Don't you find it strange, Exorian? Since his appearance, the epidemic has halted. The weather has calmed. Even the war itself has paused."
Exorian lifted his gaze to the sky, where faint strands of sunlight broke through the shroud of clouds. Such a sight had not been seen for a very long time.
"Strange indeed…"
Not far from there, some time later, the King of Arva burned amidst the flames—his body reduced to ash alongside those of countless others who had tried to cross the border. The Emperor's elite troops, Exorian, and Turcan himself had intervened to repel the threat. There was no need to name the victor—the losers lay charred upon the ground.
"You know, Exorian, I had prepared myself for a day like this, while still believing it would never come. I was certain the strength and charisma passed down from my ancestors would serve only to preserve peace within the Empire. I believed in calm and serenity. I believed in peace, and in joy."
The Emperor's gaze wandered over the fallen kingdom of Arva. Corpses littered the ground, and flames devoured them, scattering like countless lanterns across the earth—candles to mourn the dead in a vast cemetery.
Lost in reflection, Turcan tilted his head, staring at his bloodstained sword. His crystal-white hair fell over his face, his expression touched by a faint, nearly imperceptible sorrow.
"I never thought it would come to this. I never imagined the end of the world. Yet now, tsunamis beyond record strike wherever there is water. Earthquakes split the land apart. Volcanoes erupt after centuries of silence. A nameless plague ravages the kingdom of Arva, and war rages between Zvenne and Garida."
Exorian bowed his head. He too was stricken. No one could have foreseen that the end of the world would begin here and now.
Their world had become hell—and there was nothing they could do to save it.
"And yet here I stand, powerless, trying only to safeguard my Empire. For now, I manage it. But what comes next? Will I truly be able to protect it from what follows? What will that boy read in those books?"
The Emperor paused. A shaft of light surrounded him on the battlefield, as though he alone had been blessed by the heavens.
To the men, he was the very definition of a chosen one—his strength, charisma, and beauty could only elevate him to the summit. His imperial throne sometimes cast him as a tyrant, but in truth, his heart was filled with wisdom few could perceive.
If humanity were to be lost, the world would converge upon this man in its final moments, for so had the heavens chosen.
But this was not how the Emperor saw himself.
"And yet… the day I met that boy, I knew. I knew this fragile world would not endure. I sensed the storm he carried. And still…"
Marc's face surfaced in the Emperor's mind—their brief moments together within those strange churches, searching for answers.
"You can kill me… Zodric… The Lady of the Throne… You've got nothing? … Ah, look who it is... Let's run through this damned mess…"
But with it came the memory of Marc losing control as he emerged from the church: eyes consumed by a terrifying black aura, his body twisting like a broken puppet, that darkness writhing like a starving beast, crushing all life in its path.
That too had been part of the journey.
And yet…
"I did not kill him."
Exorian did not resent his Emperor. He himself would not have been able to lift a finger.
They stood in silence for long minutes, watching the bodies burn. To an outsider, it might have seemed cruel and heartless, but this was the choice they had made—to protect the Empire of Zvenne.
The flames reflected in Turcan's eyes like a feeble light struggling to pierce his heart. Yet the Emperor remained unyielding, his posture tall and proud. At last, he turned, calmly tearing his gaze away from the massacre.
"Let us go, Exorian. We must protect this Empire, no matter what. Do you know where Marc is?"
"No, Majesty. At this moment, no one knows where he is."
Exorian followed his Emperor, just as he had once followed his father.
And suddenly, words from the past echoed in his mind. He recalled one of the great halls of the palace, where the former Emperor stood upon a golden balcony in Emperor's Glory.
The elder Turcan had not turned toward him, but Exorian could read him like an open book. A warm smile shone on his jovial face, filling the chamber with radiance.
And without looking back, he sighed a few lighthearted words to his butler:
"Exorian, when you serve my son, tell him not to feel pressured. Just because his father was great doesn't mean he must be as well. Hahaha…"
The memory shattered as Turcan's voice pulled him back to the charred battlefield.
"Exorian?"
But despite everything, for a brief moment, Exorian saw the face of Aurus Turcan superimposed over the face of his son.
A small smile crossed the butler's lips.
"I'm coming, Your Majesty."
As he walked toward his Emperor, Exorian thought to himself, in secret: Perhaps the son is greater than the father.
*
Far away, to the easternmost shores of Zvenne—on Garida's coast where the sea endlessly beat against the sand, where the wind carried with it habits long lost since Astra's arrival, where the sun set in a bed of crimson and orange clouds, a sight of peace had once drawn many gazes—Marc lay upon the ground.
The waves washed over him at steady intervals. A strange calm lingered there—a peace that felt like the aftermath of war, even though the war had not yet ended.
Marc lay motionless, unconscious, unaware of the world around him. But despite that, in his unconsciousness, he felt a hand gently rest on his right cheek. A soft and warm hand that warmed his face.
And then, faint words drifted across the shore, carried away by the waves.
"Do not worry, Marc. Don't worry… It will be fine… it will all be fine…"
The voice grew weaker, fading as if swallowed by the sea—until no one could hear it.
"…be… fine."
Marc's eyes fluttered open. It was the softest awakening he had felt in a long time. He stared at the sky for several seconds before a wave suddenly crashed over him, drenching his face.
"Ah ! What the…?"
He coughed violently, clearing the water from his lungs, and hurriedly forced himself upright.
"Pfff… What a mess. I'm… on the beach? I thought I was still fighting Aeros and.."
The memories struck him like lightning. The battle. The gaping hole torn through his body.
With trembling hands, Marc tore what remained of his armor aside and looked down at his abdomen.
"…Impossible. It closed… on its own."
Marc knew he healed quickly, but this—this was beyond his own ability. Aeros's attacks had been fueled by aura, and wounds caused by aura—or by entities in general—were infamous for healing painfully slowly, if they healed at all. After his fight with Goagi, even walking had been nearly impossible. The master of time loops had not wielded a blade, and still it had taken Marc ages to recover.
But here? The gaping wound Aeros left had completely closed, leaving behind only a wide, hideous scar across his abdomen. Even the gash she had struck him with just before had vanished, sealed as though by sorcery.
What had happened while he was unconscious?
More importantly—hadn't he been meant to die?
Who had saved him?
Questions spun endlessly in Marc's mind as he forced himself to his feet.
He adjusted his tattered gear and began walking west, toward Zvenne, searching for answers. Perhaps the Emperor had seen something—perhaps he had images.
"I'll need a new set of armor. Hopefully it lasts longer than this one…"
Anxious about what had become of the world during his absence, Marc quickened his pace, unaware of the truth: that the world had already changed far more than he could imagine.